


I will follow you

by felixfvlicis



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Minor Character Death, Original Character Death(s), Originally Posted on LiveJournal, Past Relationship(s), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-26
Updated: 2016-11-26
Packaged: 2018-09-02 09:57:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8663002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/felixfvlicis/pseuds/felixfvlicis
Summary: Harry sits at the park bench every day, watching leaves puddle around his feet.  One night, a distraught Draco passes by.  Together, they learn to pick up the pieces and let go.





	

**Author's Note:**

> MENTIONS OF MAJOR CHARACTER AND MINOR CHARACTER DEATHS. Read at your own risk.
> 
> Unbeta'd. Written for [slythindor100's](http://slythindor100.livejournal.com/) prompt 201 over @ LJ - _Thankful / Fall_. Title comes from _'I will follow you'_ by Toulouse.
> 
> Visit my [LiveJournal](http://felixfvlicis.livejournal.com/4995.html) for a complete list of works.
> 
> Comments are ♥.

Harry pushed the palm of his hand across the bench as he watched the leaves drift to the ground.  If he listened closely enough, he could hear their soft sighs as they fell, the last bit of hope seeping through their fragile frames -- colors shifting, resigned to a new fate.  

 

His chest tightened as he looked up to the sky -- the oranges and golds of late afternoon enticing him with their warmth, pulling at his memories of his younger days, simpler times.  The light autumn breeze brushed pieces of hair from his forehead, their cadenced whispers echoing against his skin, urging him to untie the thin twine from around his heart --  _ to feel _ .

 

He sighed, brushing his cold palm across his face.  Fear was his security blanket -- tight, crippling, and oh-so-familiar.  It kept him company nearly every night as he woke with a start, his skin covered in goosebumps and beads of sweat.  Its whispers echoing off the walls --  _ you haven’t the worst of it, Harry. _  Fear was the catalyst for his attachment issues, his body a graveyard of abandonments.

 

He’d just as soon waste away, sitting here, leaves puddled around and underneath his feet, covering him with maple-scented decay.

 

* * *

 

The beginning of Draco’s undoing wasn’t losing Astoria, though her loss was the catalyst for the pain insulating his organs.  Like a flood, the pain was his constant, with oncoming bursts as soon as the old pain dulled, their embers dying, turning the once gray water blood red -- each time, revealing a new emptiness, a patch of gray that needed to beat again, to be filled.

 

He converted his old room at the manor into a potions lab, longing to find any cure for the all-consuming pain.  The sleeping draught he concocted shortly after her death left him with memories of Charity Burbage’s obscured face as Nagini tore jagged marks into her skin, blood dripping from its teeth.  Other times, he was reminded of the crackling fiendfyre below him, as he struggled to maintain a strong grip on the wooden chair, though it was never enough -- Potter never came to rescue him -- his body charred to ash in the depths below -- his screams bouncing off of the manor walls in the dark.

 

The worst of it came after he stood, slumped against the wall of the morgue in St. Mungo’s -- having just identified Astoria’s body.  The chill seized his bones, the strong scent of bleach wafting through the air, pulse pounding against his eardrums.  He later learned that she was a few weeks pregnant.  Draco left the last piece of his beating heart with her as he contemplated obliviating himself -- his wand raised, pressed against his temple, the spell forming behind his lips, the words held captive by his conscience -- putting up so much of a fight that Draco had no choice but to surrender.  

 

That was the night he found the park.

 

The soft amber glow of lamp posts illuminated the cracked charcoal asphalt, creating a clear path for Draco’s steps.  The burn of his lungs each time he inhaled was nearly too much to bear, though he needed to feel all of it.  He glanced up at the plum-stained sky, the faint glow of nearly exploded stars swimming in the gray lake of his irises.  The sting in his lungs uprooted, moved, vibrated his rib cage.  He closed his eyes and ran.

 

For Draco, running was a lot like flying.  The faster he ran, the more he felt control unwind itself from underneath his skin, unraveling, falling away behind him, twining itself within the dead leaves.  His lungs birthed short huffs of air, relinquishing their emergency supply, their gift to the atmosphere.  Those huffs became Draco’s metronome -- his steady rhythm, the sound of his feet slapping against the pavement, leaving crimson tinged bruises on asphalt’s face.

 

Each memory presented itself to him as he ran, like the short burst of light from the flash of a camera -- soundless -- before it dissolved -- thin pieces of film, ripped, swimming in the endless whites of Draco’s eyes -- transparent.

 

Every morning following that night of his near-obliviation, Draco ran.  Before the sun rose, before everything seemed real, kissed by daylight, taunting him with reminders of what he’d lost.

 

* * *

 

By the time Harry arrived at his park bench, the day had nearly vanished -- clouds exalting the oranges and yellows before pulling them into an invisible embrace, moving swiftly along the path of the muddled blue sky.  The plum-colored bruise of night skulked behind the day, like a bastard, longing to matter  _ as much _ .   

 

He’d split his day between Godric’s Hollow and the Burrow, whispering his thousandth confession, praying it would seep through the headstones, resurrecting some piece of his parent’s lifeless hearts.  He murmured soft hello’s to Hermione, her essence twined through each flower in the back of the Burrow’s garden, her place marked by the small pebbles she and Ron used to skip along the river during their search for Horcruxes all those years ago.  He ached for the warmth of her laugh, the tone of surprise coloring her voice when Ron brought flowers and her favorite takeaway home after a long day of work.  He needn't ever say anything else, because eventually, a faint breeze tickled the hair at the nape of his neck, the melodic rustling of leaves sweet, unexpected, like honeysuckle and rose.

 

Fear had accompanied him to the park bench, wound itself comfortably around his neck, slithering behind his ears and underneath the warm hood of his crimson jacket.  He shuffled his feet in the leaves, noting the spots of decay that matched the black of his trainers.  He watched the trail of his breath evaporate into the atmosphere before he closed his eyes.

 

* * *

A metronomic pounding of trainers against pavement pulled Harry from his daze.  He watched as the figure jogged steadily past him, hints of golden-blonde wisps peeking out from beneath a forest green hood.  Something about his gait seemed oddly familiar -- the pale tint of his skin, the sharp angles of his jaw, the jut of his hipbone against his black running shorts -- though Harry couldn’t be sure.  He ignored fear’s tightening grip around his neck as best he could and waited.

 

As Draco began his trek back to the park’s entrance, he passed Harry’s bench, the hint of sparkle in his emerald eyes catching Draco’s attention.  

 

“Potter?”

 

Fear threatened to snap Harry’s neck, its gravitational pull too much to ignore.  He closed his eyes, responding with a careful nod.  

 

“Malfoy,” Harry managed to choke out, between gasps.  His fists clenched and clammy in the pocket of his hoodie.

 

“You all right, there?”

 

Harry shook his head, eyes wide, panicked.

 

Draco stepped over to Harry, kneeling down in front of him, placing his palms flat against Harry’s knees.

 

“Easy,” Draco coaxed, moving his palms up toward Harry’s mid-thigh and back down, covering his knee cap.

 

“Can’t,” Harry strained, voice merely a whisper, “breathe.”

 

Draco continued his repetitive motions, watching as the color nearly vanished from Harry’s complexion.

 

When Draco spoke again, his voice was soft, vulnerable, melodic -- the friction of his palms against Harry’s knees keeping time.  The words tumbled from his lips like a lullaby -- the one his mother used to sing to him as a child to quell his fears and frustrations with magic, with life -- his eyes never leaving Harry’s.

 

_ ‘I will follow you _

_ Follow you wherever you may go _

_ There isn’t an ocean too deep _

_ A mountain so high it could keep _

_ Keep me away _

_ Away from my love.’ _

 

Harry’s breathing evened out as the last notes fell from Draco’s lips.  His skin tinged with shades of pink as he slowly returned to himself.  

 

“ _ Draco, _ ” Harry murmured, astonishment coloring his tone, “thank you.”

 

Draco’s mouth fell open a smidge, surprised etched in his gaze -- he hadn’t heard his name spoken like that since he’d first courted Astoria -- tone full of admiration, kindness, appreciation.

 

“Don’t mention it,” he muttered, swiftly withdrawing his hands from Harry’s knees as he stood, turning sharply and walking back toward the park’s entrance.

 

* * *

 

Since his bizarre encounter with Harry, Draco decided it was best to switch up his routine and go running in the afternoon, just before evening pushed its way to center stage.

 

The events of that evening a fortnight ago became more troubling to Draco the longer he mulled them over.  He hadn’t meant to lay himself open in such a way -- he’d never known the feel of transparency’s gentle hands.  When he looked into Harry’s eyes, panicked and wild, he thought of his mother’s frail frame in the Forbidden forest, her back to the Dark Lord -- asking for  _ him _ above all else -- Harry’s fear and vulnerability an exact replica of his mother’s.  He’s never been sure of the things Harry has seen, but as Draco stared into him, he felt his heart clench and release -- the thin blood-stained twine fraying, threatening to break. 

 

He’d only just begun his slow and steady trek on the park trail when he passed the oak bench, which was, of course, occupied by Harry.  He sighed and rolled his eyes, stride coming to a halt.

 

“Fancy seeing you here, Potter.” 

 

Harry looked up, a finger pushing his glasses back to their righted position on the bridge of his nose.  His blank expression was rather unnerving.

 

“I’m usually here.”

 

Draco shuffled his feet, his gaze downcast.  Slightly embarrassed that he’d clearly bothered Harry.

 

“Why do you run at night?” 

 

The question startled Draco.  He turned his head to the side, gazing up, past the trees, straight into the horizon.  A sigh escaped the corner of his mouth.

 

“The day,” Draco began, quietly, “is much too  _ alive _ for my taste.”

 

Harry nodded as if he understood.  And when he looked at Draco, then, everything flashed white in front of him -- Remus gripping Harry’s arm, restraining him from plunging into death after Sirius; the breath leaving his lungs as Dumbledore tumbled to his death; the strong desire to save Draco and Zabini from the fiendfyre, despite their muddled, toxic past; cringing as the shadow off Nagini ruthlessly yanked each trace of life from Snape’s body, his fragile whisper of  _ ‘you have your mother’s eyes’ _ before he slumped over, legs splayed out in front of him; watching with disbelief as Voldemort crumbled to pieces in front of his eyes.  

 

“Oh,” Harry breathed, after a prolonged silence, a quizzical expression on his face.  “I get that.”

 

Harry reminded Draco of a puzzle -- as though he was composed of hundreds of pieces -- each completely different, but somehow, if he chose carefully enough, he could begin to outline this curious man with pieces that fit because they were  _ meant _ to be there.

 

“Do you?”

 

Harry stood, facing Draco.

 

“Yes.”

 

Harry’s admission nearly broke Draco -- it was as if he could turn around and be back in the morgue of St. Mungo’s -- nostrils full of bleach-scented death -- a facade, the illusion of a silver lining, ignorance.  In that moment, Draco wanted to run to his mother and drown in her sweet voice as she sang his favorite lullaby, her thin hand coursing through his hair.  

 

Draco stepped around Harry, settling onto the far side of the bench, his trainers crushing the leaves -- the scent of their death leaving a trail along the asphalt. 

 

“Harry,” Draco tilted his head slightly upward, meeting Harry’s eyes.  Their emerald tint resembling Draco’s silver scarf buried in the third drawer of his potions lab at the manor.  Just the thought of Hogwarts emboldened him to make such a suggestion.  “We should talk.”   

 

* * *

Three days later, enveloped by a proper warming charm thanks to Draco, Harry unclenched his fists, removed his hand from the sewn pocket of his hoodie, his palm flat against the bench.  He spoke, words tumbling out of him like Voldemort’s  _ Avada Kedavra _ directed at him all those years ago -- effortless yet weighted.

 

“The night terrifies me.  The plum-tinted sky reminds me of bruises -- marks -- of the half-moons underneath your eyes the night you refused to identify me at the manor.”

 

Draco swallowed, his saliva entangled with the lump in his throat.  He remembered that night as if it were yesterday, in part because he went against his father’s wishes, a small victory -- forming a crack in the force of Lucius’s grip, loosening it.  That night, Harry  unknowingly became his catalyst for everything that was to follow.

 

“I remember that night,” Draco whispered, placing his hand atop Harry’s.

 

* * *

 

Four days after that, Draco revealed details about his post-Hogwarts life -- traveling to Paris, meeting Astoria.

 

“When I met her,” Draco began, taking a breath as if to steady himself.  “I thought I would be happy.  It was what our parents wanted, and I thought, selfishly, that being involved with her would help repair my image.”

 

“Did you fall in love with her?”  Harry asked, his voice small, vulnerable.

 

“I fell in love with the idea,” Draco paused, “of being in love with someone.  I thought I was in love with her simply because I’d never known different.  I did grow to care for her, though.”

 

“Was there anyone, in school?”

 

“Don’t be ridiculous, Harry.  You know my history.  I was too busy competing with Hermione for the spot at the top of the class, taunting you, or being trapped under the thumb of my father -- later, the Dark Lord.”

 

_ Hermione. _

 

Harry sucked in a sharp breath and squeezed his eyes shut.  He could feel himself shutting down as time slowed, his pulse thumping loudly against his eardrum.

 

“Harry?”

 

Draco squeezed his thigh.  Harry sat, motionless.

 

“Where do you go?” Draco whispered, moving to kneel in front of Harry again, palm brushing against the fabric of Harry’s jeans, thigh to knee and back again.

 

Draco cast a wandless disillusionment charm around the both of them, singing soft, sweet notes from his childhood lullaby once more.

 

_ ‘I will follow you, _

_ Ever since you touched my hand _

_ I knew _

_ Near you I always must be _

_ And nothing can keep you from me _

_ You are my destiny.’ _

 

Slowly, Harry came back to him, sadness etched in his face.

 

“Hermione,” he whispered, “died.”

 

“She died, Draco,” he repeated, voice broken through soft, convulsive sobs.  

 

“I couldn’t -- couldn’t save her.”

 

“Why couldn’t I save her, Draco?”

 

“I save  _ everyone _ , but not her.”

 

_ “Why not her?” _

 

Draco stood stiffly, pulling Harry up to him -- he felt weightless as if his body were a hollow grave, housing only echoes and whispers of the dead.  His mouth went dry, a sharp burn in his lungs as he breathed, clipped inhales, the air surrounding them reeked of decay and bleach.

 

Harry screamed through his sobs -- guttural, helpless, broken -- like a wounded animal, his face buried against Draco’s chest.

 

Draco moved his fingertips vertically across Harry’s back, the fabric of Harry’s jacket coarse against his fingers.  Harry’s arms snaked around Draco’s thin torso, gripping him tight enough to birth the beginnings of a bruise right below his ribs.  He winced.  

 

“Shhh, Harry,” Draco whispered, though his throat felt as if it was closing -- the burning in his lungs nearly too much to bear.  “I’ve got you.”

 

Moments passed them by, the rustling of leaves around them mixed with Harry’s soft sniffles the only audible sounds besides their breathing -- a clipped cadence -- in and out, mirroring the soft rhythm of Draco’s childhood lullaby. 

 

Draco felt Harry’s breathing even out just before he pulled away, glasses caked with a salty film, obscuring nature’s pictures, a small crack in three places.

 

“Oculus Reparo,” Draco muttered softly, slightly embarrassed that he remembered the spell despite never having to use it.

 

Harry sat down on the bench, closed his eyes, a small smile forming on his lips as he felt the sparks of magic.  He couldn’t even remember the last time he picked up a wand.

 

When he opened his eyes, Draco was studying him -- palm resting against his cheek, the gray of his eyes searching for the key to Harry’s mind, or perhaps, his heart.

 

“Astoria,” Draco began with a soft, broken sigh, turning to once again sit beside Harry.  “died, too.  She was weeks pregnant when I got called to St. Mungo’s to identify her.”

 

Harry didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath.

 

* * *

 

As he spoke, Draco looked exactly as he had during sixth year -- pale, gaunt, plum colored half-moons settled beneath his eyes.  He waited for the inevitable all those years ago, as he curled in on himself underneath his bed covers, whispering the beginnings of  _ Avada Kedavra _ , but never making it past the initial  _ ‘av’ _ sound without breaking into silent sobs, his body convulsing with each sharp intake of breath.  Some nights, he wished for the dementor’s kiss -- extinguishing the bright blue light of his soul, thrusting it up into atmosphere’s oblivion.  

 

Feeling compelled to offer some sort of comfort, Harry reached for him, threading his fingers through Draco’s golden-blonde hair.  Draco leaned into the touch, solemn notes colouring his voice as tears prickled in his eyes, held captive by pride’s reinforced twine around Draco’s heart.  Pain’s threats hummed through his subconscious, mimicking his father’s sharp tone of disappointment before he stormed out of the family room of the manor, unable to bear witness to his son’s ridiculous crying fits, cursing Narcissa’s weakness as she sang to him, the melody soft and warm as it tumbled from her lips.

 

* * *

 

By the time Harry and Draco began coming to the park together, daylight grew more fragile, requiring what little warmth the sun could provide to lull into restful sleep.  Evening painted the sky with hazy oranges, bright lilacs and sparkles of gray.  Autumn’s chill turned bitter, nipping at the heels of passerbys, retiring each evening unsatisfied, knowing that the eventual winter would outshadow its best efforts all the while.

 

Harry placed a warm paper cup of peppermint tea around Draco’s curved palm before sitting flush beside Draco, touching shoulder to foot.  Draco cast a wandless warming charm around them as Harry sipped his apple cider with a touch of honey -- it’s essence reminding him of Hermione’s spirit -- sweet, kind, impenetrable to dark forces.

 

Sometimes, Harry laughed softly, watching Draco’s face change, the zest of peppermint awakening his senses, as he spoke excitedly about his newest potions experiment.  Draco twined his fingers through Harry’s as he spoke of the pure, loose beauty of Paris, the smell of roses and macarons wafting through the air.  

 

Together, they watched nightfall suck the color from the sky, as Draco squeezed Harry’s hand, humming his boyhood melody, a sweet, familiar reminder that all would be well in due time.

 

_ ‘I love you, I love you _

_ I love you, _

_ Where you go _

_ I’ll follow, follow _

_ Follow _

_ You’ll always be my true love, _

_ My true love, true love, _

_ Forever _

_ And ever.’ _

 


End file.
